Yours truly recently discovered a treasure trove of art from 1970s Mexican horror pulps, none of which I've ever laid my eyes upon. Nonetheless, I shall attempt to relay these thrilling story beats using nothing but context clues. For example, that illustration above is from a story called The Time Santo Glued His Hands To The Sliding Door (And His Wife Was Embarrassed On His Behalf). Boom — we're off to the races.

Errol Flynn is an occult acrylic painter. In an ill-advised demonic pact, the swashbuckling actor exchanges his eternal soul for a set of perfectly pigmented paints colored by silt from the Ninth Circle of Hell's frozen lake.

But Flynn flubs crossing the t's and dotting the i's in his Satanic bargain. He accidentally trades his "eternal soap" for the cursed paints. He is condemned to forever bear cackling fart lines.

The scene is the Low Countries during a depression. Perhaps another tulip bubble has burst? We honestly cannot say.


The locals, faced with chronic unemployment, have confronted this economic malaise head-on — that is, by grafting their heads onto ravens. Although corvids don't need jobs, birds don't have pockets either. Like our luchador friend above, everyone is locked out of their homes. This is the twist ending, albeit a clichéd one.

While hiking through the Tyrolean Alps, two newlyweds stumble upon a genial iceman. As they stay in his neolithic chalet, the husband becomes intoxicated by both his lichen schnapps and homespun wisdom. Meanwhile, his wife's latent objectum sexuality blossoms — she becomes enamored of the fresh Alpine air. In perhaps the world's most unconventional divorce, Org and Jaime give Tatiana to the sky. She climaxes while in freefall, bringing this tender tale of erotic self-discovery to an unlikely conclusion.

A man is mugged by a scuba diver with the power of telekinetic nape-tickling. While the man is bowled over with jollity, the undersea hoodlum attempts to purloin our hero's wallet.


Also, Grace Kelly's melting face has somehow eclipsed the Sun. The reader is left to assume that this is a metaphor that has been lost in translation, a metaphor about how maritime horseplay ages our elders or some other platitudinous dross.

This is the cover to the novelization of Sanatorio, an unauthorized rip-off of Ghostbusters. Slimer is the ghost of an unbaptized dairy cow, Egon is an aspiring air guitarist, Janine is a sultry djinn (another translation mishap).


Who's that at left? Well, dwindling funds caused the filmmaker to replace the last 45 minutes of Sanatorio with the opening 45 minutes of Gremlins. Hey, it was either that or Mannequin.

I know exactly what these two stories are about, but I shall be selfish with my knowledge. One clue: they're sequels.

Uh, Bill Murray calls it quits. Also, Mamie Van Doren has lost a contact.

Pass. Yes, I'm allowed to pass.

Fuck this, I need more coffee. You can see many more of these wonderful pulp illustrations (many of which appear in this book) over at Monster Brains.